


eventful night

by the_ocean_weekender



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Post-Break Up, Romance, they break up and they make up you know?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23424622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ocean_weekender/pseuds/the_ocean_weekender
Summary: Geralt reappears in his life three months after he made it abundantly clear he didn't want Jaskier around anymore on a cold, wet night wielding his sword and saving his life. So now Jaskier has to forgive him, bastard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 325





	eventful night

**Author's Note:**

> content warning: mentions of panic attacks in the third and final section

Geralt re-appears in his life on a cold, wet night, wielding his sword and dispatching the back-mass of a monster that was about to make a meal of the finest bard on the Continent- a fact that would have gone completely over the monster’s head, no doubt. Jaskier lets out a very unmanly shriek at the surprise appearance, clutches his lute in front of his crotch ( _priorities_ , after all) and watches the moonlight glint off the blade and then slide upwards over black leather armour to make the witcher’s long white hair shine dully.

Well, if nothing else, this’ll make a hell of a song.

Wet chopping noises squelch and make him grimace, but not enough to put him off edging closer and watching as the monster- a common hellhound, he sees now- be efficiently decapitated and its body burnt by Geralt of Rivia himself.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, hoping the witcher doesn’t notice him shivering as the night air pierces his doublet and the full reality of what’s just happened sinks in. “Of fucking course it’s you. It would be, wouldn’t it?”

Geralt blinks, “Jaskier.”

He bristles at the sound of his own name, gnashing his teeth on the fury rising in his throat. “That’s it? That’s _all_ you’ve got to say to me?” Maybe three months isn’t such a long time in the life of a witcher, but it’s long enough to notice whether he’s missed Jaskier or not and apparently the answer is ‘no’. “Bastard,” he growls, feeling more akin to a sulky teenager than an indignant and hard done by companion and wishing he’d never come out for an evening stroll at all. Wishes he’d never even gotten out of bed this morning.

Blinking again, Geralt stands up straighter, sword in one hand and monster head in the other, “Jaskier, I…”

Jaskier turns on his heel and storms off.

***

Two hours later, he's safely ensconced in his room at the inn for the night, warming his backside at the fire and trying to shake off the adrenaline that’s been coursing through his system since his earlier encounter and the anger that’s been boiling away for a lot longer. Shadows dart about over the grimy carpet as he gestures wildly with his hands, babbling aloud to himself and to his lute, propped in the chair facing him. (He’s not drawn a face on a piece of paper and stuck it to the lute) (yet.)

“After all he said to me- after _everything_ , and he just appears behind the hellhound and saves my life! I bet he did that deliberately because he knows now I _have_ to forgive him, the ass!”

Geralt used to respond perhaps even less than his lute, but Jaskier still preferred ranting to him.

He swears, picks up the instrument and throws himself into the chair, plucking absently at a few of the strings, wondering if he can make a song for tomorrow evening out of all this, at least. There’s a knock at the door. He freezes. When he doesn’t answer, the knock comes again. He knows who it is. He’s not going to answer it.

He pulls back the bolt and opens the door. Of course he was going to fucking answer it, who is he kidding?

Geralt’s standing on the other side of the threshold, the candles in the inn’s hallway casting shadows over his face and dancing lights over his armour. “Jaskier.”

He sighs, “What do you want, Geralt?”

Part of the reason their argument hurt so much (and it did hurt, it cut right to his bloody core) us because, up until that point, Jaskier had always believed that the words Geralt didn’t or couldn’t say were kind; words of friendship and fellowship and connection and how much he liked that Jaskier was on the Path with him and that they were on the Path _together_. And realising he’d been fooling himself for over twenty years- it hurt. Every single ache and shame and humiliation had been thrown at him on top of that mountain and he felt them every step of the way down and still felt them whenever his mind wondered back there. How ashamed he was, of believing that Geralt cared. It all just- it really, really hurt.

To his horror, Jaskier feels tears stinging at his eyes and hastily shoves them back. He won’t give Geralt the satisfaction; worse, though, the witcher would be completely unmoved by such a display of pure weakness. Just completely nonplussed and uncaring, as if Jaskier’s influence on his life was tantamount to sea foam on the waves.

“If you’ve got nothing to say,” he starts, in the icy voice he usually reserves for his father, “Then you can leave.” He still needs to thank him for saving his life back there, but, well, that can wait. He’s in no mood to be kind today.

“I-“ he hesitates. The great White Wolf actually hesitates and begins again. “I have something to say.”

He won’t make this easy, oh no, “Spit it out then.”

“I can’t.”

“Melitele’s tits, why not?”

Emotion shifts over Geralt’s face, as fleeting as a bird. It kills him that he no longer believes what he reads on his witcher’s face the way he used to. “I’ve never… apologised to anyone before, I…” he frowns, choosing each word with great care. “I don’t want to get it wrong.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops, “What?” _Smooth, Dandelion, really smooth_.

He shifts from foot to foot, face now blank but stance obviously uncomfortable. “For… on the mountain. I was- things happened and I took them out on you. None of the things I said were true. And… your singing’s not like a pie without filling.”

It’s the last sentence that really does it, that makes Jaskier think _oh no_ because he can physically feel his anger melting away. Yet when he opens his mouth all he manages to come up with is: “Okay.”

A flash of- disappointment? - darkens his yellow cat eyes. Then he nods, once, turns and starts stomping back down the corridor towards the stairs, quieter than a huge witcher has any right to be. “Wait!” Jaskier scrambles to grab him and then scrabbles to compose himself when he turns round again. “Just where the hell do you think you’re going now?”

Geralt shrugs one shoulder, “I’ve finished my apology.”

He’s agape again, opening and closing his mouth several times before he hits upon the right answer, “Don’t you _want_ me to forgive you and come with you again?” He is so confused.

“That isn’t,” his face screws up in obvious frustration- obvious to Jaskier that his and his stupid heart pangs, the way it’s been pining for the last three months. Twenty years is a long time to know a person, severing the connection was like losing a limb. “I’m not doing this just to get you to travel with me again.”

Disappointment rears its ugly head and Jaskier feels exhausted, “Then why the fuck are you here?” He’s asked that a lot tonight. Has he asked that excessively? It feels like he’s asked that a lot. “If you don’t want me to just come with you again, why bother finding me to say sorry?”

“Because- because I needed to.” The way he considers all his words so he doesn’t make the same mistakes he did on the mountain sells it to Jaskier.

Sighing, this time in more fond exasperation than annoyance or weariness, he opens the door wider, “At least stay here tonight.”

His golden cat eyes dart everywhere before settling on Jaskier’s collar bone, exposed where the collar of his doublet us unbuttoned. “I can leave.”

He snorts and walks back inside his room, poking at the fire with the poker, “If I wanted you to leave, Geralt, I’d have told you to fuck off already.”

“Alright.” He steps into the room and shuts the door behind him..

They talk long into the night like old friends do, as if the argument on the mountain never happened, like they would have talked if they went to the coast after all. “The coast doesn’t sound like a bad idea, now,” Geralt admits. He doesn’t ask if Jaskier will go or if he’d like to and Jaskier on his part carefully doesn’t offer. It’s kind of pointless- there’s only one answer and it’s going to be yes, unless he _doesn’t_ ask, which is entirely on Geralt. They share the bed, like they always did, like they would have done at the coast. As Geralt slips into bed next to him, Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief. _Some things never change_.

***

_Some things never change_ is his first thought upon waking to a grunting, twitching, red-hot Geralt besides him. In light of their recent break up and reconciliation, Jaskier perhaps should tread warily of waking him up from his bad dream, but he’s liable to fall out of bed the way he’s tossing and turning. ( _And_ a part of his mind that he ignores murmurs, _you don’t want him to suffer any longer than he has to_ ).

All that’s needed is a hand on his shoulder and an order, “Wake up now, Geralt, wake up” and he’s wide awake again, glaring up at the ceiling and his fist trembling where he clenches it on the bed sheets.

Carefully, Jaskier lies back down next to him. He’s never been sure what to say when he’s like this. He’s certain Geralt would infinitely prefer he just roll over and go back to sleep but he can’t do that for the same reasons Geralt won’t – or didn’t- when the positions are reversed. At a loss as to whether it’s a good idea or a bad one, he curls his fingers over Geralt’s large, shaking hand do and doesn’t even let go even when his breathing evens out. “Remember the first time I panicked in front of you?” he asks eventually. “Still maintain that was my father’s fault; you didn't know what to do but you still tried. Even just the fact you tried really helped.”

That night was nearly twenty years ago now, an unfortunate side effect of travelling to a town neighbouring the one where Jaskier had grown up and with whom his father had traded frequently. The smell of orange cordonia leaf which was unique to the surrounding region had put him on edge until it all came to a head that night when camping in the forest. He’d spilt their pot of rabbit stew in the fire. Geralt had tried to help, though didn't think his slower witcher breathing would actually be of any use in helping Jaskier remember how to breathe. By sheer luck or coincidence, it had been exactly what he needed.

All night and into the next day, Jaskier had been waiting for some complaint or even a comment about ruining the stew and wasting food and none ever came.

Next to him, Geralt exhales softly and his fist unclenches but he doesn’t move as Jaskier’s breath catches, cursing the hope spilling out of his heart. “Where do you plan on going next?” It’s a poor attempt to change the subject. Luckily, the man beside him is Geralt of Rivia, king of emotional constipation.

He shrugs, an amazing feat given he’s lying flat on his back, “Maybe the coast.”

_Oh for_ \- Jaskier pulls his hand free and pinches the bridge of his nose, unable to stop himself muttering a few curses in a few different languages. _This man..._

“Hmmm?”he’s totally oblivious; Jaskier can just barely make out the grey outline of his face, curving like a crescent moon, whereas he knows Geralt’s gaze is fixed directly on him. He hopes he can see how pissed off he is. Hopes he’ll care. “What?”

“I’m not doing this anymore, Geralt.” There’s far more venom in his words than he intended, yet he can’t regret anything, “If you want me tell me.”

Rustling, then a soft puff of air as he casts _Igni_ to light a candle on the bedside table. Jaskier screws his eyes shut to adjust and when he can focus again, his gaze falls on the unreadable face of his witcher.

Unreadable to anyone but Jaskier.

Geralt’s face changes several times and he doesn’t dare breathe out. _Come on_ he pleads silently. _Come on, I’ve even given you half the words already. Please, please_.

“I’m going to the coast,” he says. “Will you come to the coast with me?”

His exhale is a gush of breathless laughter and he surges forward and grasps hold of Geralt again, pulling him into a kiss. “Okay,” Jaskier gasps when the kiss is over. “I’ll go to the coast with you.”


End file.
